


Jeeves and the Cultured Colonial

by Roadstergal



Category: British Actor RPF, Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Acting, M/M, Operas, References to Shakespeare, Requited Love, Scheming, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Valeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 19:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14984039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: Bertram Wooster has, most unusually, evidenced an interest in the fine arts.  What has occasioned this change, and what does it mean for his faithful valet?





	Jeeves and the Cultured Colonial

It is not my way to put pen to paper and record my stories for posterity.  That is more in the style of Mister Wooster, as he is a gentleman; my stories are not gentlemanly, in many ways.

Yet I find myself desiring to record this story.  Perhaps not for posterity, however.  More in the style of a classic confession.

It started off as innocently as any story Mister Wooster might record; it started with a pleasant spring afternoon.  Mid-May, if I recall correctly, warm and clement, with a sweet breeze that carried the floral promise of summer.

“What ho, Jeeves!” Mister Wooster had cried as he walked in, a standard greeting.  I took his light spring jacket to hang it.  “Say, do you know much of this fellow MacBeth?”

Someone at the Drones club must have mentioned it, and I cringed internally to think of what a bastardized version of that classic had made its way to Mister Wooster’s ears.  “If you refer to the play by William Shakespeare, sir, yes, I have some passing familiarity with the gentleman, sir.”

“Well, I say, Jeeves.”  Mister Wooster flung himself on the sofa, with the unconscious grace that made him so difficult to look away from.  “It seems to me a rather rummy thing that it all gets laid on the bird in the picture, doesn’t it?  Sure, she poked him towards the nasty side of things, but a man can always say no, I bally well won’t kill the king, what?”

“A most astute observation, sir,” I had to note.  “The mens rea for the regicide in question is historically given to the lady of the house, sir, but the deed is unquestionably that of the thane.  May I ask the origin of your interest in this dramaturgical quandary?”

"Oh, yes!  I didn’t give you the low-down on the newest visitor to the Drones club!  See, Hugo Carmody has a niece who lives in France, and her beau has an American business.  Now, the fellow who owns the business asked her to get a friend of his from Australia to London for a bit of look-around, and dashed if he didn’t invite him to the Drones!  Quite a figure he cuts, for a criminal, Jeeves – Bean was most impressed.  We jawed a bit, and it turns out he’s quite the fellow for a play or two.”

“Is he, sir?” I replied thoughtfully.  The criminal element was not often one for culture, yet Mister Wooster had summed up the central issue of the Scottish play most succinctly.

“Indeed he did!” Mister Wooster noted, taking the tea I carried to him, sipping at it lustily.  “We’re to go to the opera tomorrow afternoon.”

“The opera, sir?” I replied with great care. “I did not know you had such affection for this form of art, sir."  If did I recall properly, his last visitation – in the company of Bingo Little – resulted in a much greater affinity for the backs of his eyelids than the lyrical arts onstage.

“Come now, Jeeves!  Do you really think so little of me?”

“It is not what I think of you, sir, but of your taste in entertainment.  Either way, sir, I will prepare to entertain you and your friend with tea tomorrow.”

“Well, you jolly well should!"

 

* * *

 

I do fully confess that my mind was not at ease.  I recognized, of course, the hypocrisy and jealousy of my discontent.  If another gentleman had succeeded where I failed – both in conferring upon Mister Wooster an appreciation for the finer arts, and in securing his affection – who was I to complain?

Yet I found myself hoping, in the smallness of my heart, that the gentleman in question would be unappealing to the eye.

I was disappointed in this.

To the many other frustrations I encountered in this matter, I had to add my inability to discover any intelligence about the man.  None of the valets or servants whose ears I could bend could tell me anything of this man, his character, or his history.  Not even his family name.

I had prepared a modest repast for tea – sandwiches, scones, clotted cream, and an assortment of small cakes from the bakery that Mister Wooster particularly favored.  When he and his companion appeared, I was struck by the gentleman visitor – as any would be.  His height lacked nothing to my own, and the breadth of his shoulders was such that he barely fit through the door.  His face was startlingly handsome, square and strong, framed with a short, neat, light brown beard.

“Jeeves!” Mister Wooster crowed.  “Meet Christopher.  I must say, I found the opera jolly entertaining, thanks to his gab about the back-story!”

The only solace I found was in this Christopher’s accent, which was as properly abysmal as any descendants of the criminals from that penal colony.  “The famous Jeeves!  I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

I continued to serve them tea as they spoke; it was an excellent opportunity to take the measure of this man.  His knowledge of the classical arts was striking and deep, to an extent I had not expected from anyone with connections to the Drones Club.  I could not reconcile his rough speech with his erudition.

It was a very sober Jeeves who bade the gentleman farewell at long last.

An increasingly sober Jeeves noted the time that Mister Wooster spent with this gentleman in the weeks that followed.  They attended operas and plays together, which Mister Wooster seemed to take great delight in.  His discussion of them afterwards, although couched in the most banal of terms, showed his interest in this culture continued unabated.

“You seem to enjoy the company of Christopher, sir” I noted to Mister Wooster, after listening to the gentleman in question describe the Tempest in a manner that would surely make the Bard cringe, and yet showed his depth of understanding to a degree that humbled me.

“And why shouldn’t I?  The fellow is a jolly good time, and if I had him about back in my school days, I might not have gotten the strap quite as often!”

It was small and petty of me to be jealous, but I must confess that I am not above such emotions.  I nonetheless realized their irrationality.  Even as a descendent of the original inhabitants of the penal colony so far from England, Christopher was, as far as I could determine (again, I could gather nothing about this man!), a gentleman, and a better match for Mister Wooster than I.  Yes, such a match would expose Mister Wooster to discord and discrimination – but no less than he would face if he would consider me in the role I now suspected for Christopher.  How small of me would it be, to keep Mister Wooster unpartnered in the vain hope that I could, somehow, touch his heart?

My mind was substantially unquiet in the next month, and my sleep disturbed.  I credit that as the reason that it took me so long to recall that, by good fortune, a member of the production staff of the Globe owed me a favor, due to the incident concerning the goat, the royal scepter, and the First Folio, which I shall perhaps record at another time.  I leveraged this favor into admission to a matinee performance of Henry V, during which I would have the opportunity to observe young Mister Wooster and his Australian companion – unseen.

This play is a particular favorite of mine, and the quality of the production was such that I, briefly, forgot my mission.  The young actor in the title role, in particular, was most engaging and sweet of voice.  It was not until the stirring speech of the tennis balls – to my taste in such matters, a finer speech than the more lauded Saint Crispin’s Day oration – that I chanced to look at Christopher and Mister Wooster, and noted the rapt adoration on the face of the former.

It was then that a scheme was birthed full-grown, like Athena, into my brain.

 

* * *

 

“I say,” Mister Wooster replied, “that’s a smashing plan, Jeeves!  Having Christopher around will make this dreadful visit to Woollam Chersey so much more tolerable.  You know, Jeeves,” he said, thoughtfully, “I had been getting the sense that you didn’t _like_ him.”

“I am only concerned for the influence he might have on your speaking voice, sir.”  As always, humor was a useful deflection from more complex matters.

“Aaah, Jeeves!  But what a bully idea!  I feel twice the man I did when I first got that ruddy telegram from Aunt Agatha.  Let’s pack at once!”

Securing the invitation for the other necessary member of my scheme was not trivial.  Yet thanks to the Lady Agatha’s interim cook, who was instrumental in the affair concerning the hundred-year-old scotch, we were able to concoct a scheme around requiring a reader for certain activities around a charity event the lady had hoped to secure.

The knowledge of this scheme increased my sanguinity substantially, I must confess, in the ride to Woollam Chersey.  Mister Wooster and young Christopher were as affectionate as ever, and yet, I could now see nuance to their affection that my own limitations may have previously concealed.  It was not, as I had initially taken it to be, the affection of ardor; instead, it had a great deal of camaraderie. Was this something Mister Wooster desired, I found myself wondering.  Had I been underestimating his zeal for the more intellectual arts?  Had my means of approach been offputting?

I had much to distract myself from such thoughts once we arrived.  I was greatly engrossed in dealing with the niceties of Mister Wooster’s clothing and other personal effects, dressing him for the afternoon ramble he engaged in with the robust Australian, and preparing his clothing and bath for the social gathering after dinner.

“You know, Jeeves,” Mister Wooster noted from his bath, assiduously washing himself – yes, in my most difficult duty, as I am only of flesh and blood like any man, and Mister Wooster’s flesh, lean and delectable as it is, stirs most inappropriate thoughts – “I’m going to have to bally well rethink my view of Australians!  All kangaroos and hats with corks, I thought, but this fellow – I’m going to miss him when he leaves, what?”

“Perhaps, sir,” I suggested, holding a towel for him to step into and dry himself, “you could continue to attend such theatrical events as he stirred your interest in, sir.”

“Come now, Jeeves!  Who would attend them with me? I couldn’t stand the company of the blighters at the Drones club at this sort of thing!”

And I had nothing to offer to him.  Attend an opera with your valet?

 

* * *

 

“I say, Jeeves,” Mister Wooster sighed as I removed his jacket later that evening, “I had two words at most with Christopher tonight!  Really, you’d have thought we weren’t friends at all.”

“Oh, dear me, sir,” I replied, trying my best not to project any degree of relief.

“No, he spent the whole night chatting with this actor fellow.  Nobody seemed to know why he was there, but dash it all, as soon as Christopher saw him, he wouldn’t leave his side.  They just talked and talked about who knows what!”

“Well, sir,” I noted, “given that Christopher is interested in the theatrical arts, sir, it is perhaps unsurprising that an actor commanded his attention?”

“It’s just a damned shame,” Mister Wooster sighed.  “He’s back off to the lands Down Under when we get back!”

“We do have a lengthy ride home, sir, if you recall,” I noted.

And yes, they spoke just as much on the return journey, if not more.  As I was now attuned to the dynamics at hand, I could detect the great care with which Christopher referred to the actor with whom he had spent the evening (and, although it is uncouth to mention it, I discovered, thanks to the highly discreet maid, that they had also spent the night in each others’ company).  He did not wish to sound as enamored as he was, and I regret to say I understood his care, and the myriad reasons for it.

 

* * *

 

“I say, Jeeves!” Mister Wooster stared at the small piece of paper in his hands, frowning at it as if it had offered him personal offense. I delivered his tea to his hand.  He took it and sipped it without looking away from the telegram. 

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve had a telegram from Christopher!  You remember him, tall, wide, sort of a classic Greek God fellow?"

“I recall him very well, sir,” I noted, delicately.

“Well, he’s back in Australia, and he just wrote me to say he’s taken up with that actor.  Thomas.  The one he met at Aunt Agatha’s?  They’re apparently living together!”

“Yes, sir, I do recall,” I replied, carefully, hands behind my back.

“Well, it’s scandalous,” Mister Wooster noted, tossing the telegram aside.  “Just scandalous.”

“Is it, sir,” I asked, my heart sinking.  Was this, indeed, the final statement of Mister Wooster’s on the subject I had held vain hope on for so long?

"Yes!” Mister Wooster shook his head.  “Taking up with an _actor_? You know how they are, Jeeves, a man in every port!”

While the example might have been more suited to sailors and their assignations with women, I did not feel any need to correct Wooster in this.  "Mister Wooster," I noted, taking the vehemence with which I felt this truth out of my voice, "you never fail to astonish me, sir."

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank Kahvi for the idea, the beta, and the better ending line!


End file.
